In a hillside hideout somewhere in County Limerick, - carefully hidden from the keen searching eyes of the sergeant and his men – the poitín maker, after the second distillation, drew off the first glass of his brew. He looked at it solemnly as he held it up to the candle’s light to test its clarity. Seemingly satisfied, he swirled the crystal clear liquor in the glass and then nosed it for its bouquet. He sipped and rolled it and chewed on it and then spat out the precious liquid, just as a maitre de chai chewing on a handful of grapes might do. He chewed again on remnant droplets, as one would do on the last shreds of a nut. He sipped again, swallowed, and with a smile nodded his head then gave his verdict: “It is real good this time!” Perhaps he had read somewhere of the ritual of a cellar master in the Medoc or some other wine region of France, and in his own mind had cast himself in a similar role – an Irish version of a maitre de chai. Or maybe he was a throw-back to some old time Celtic tippler! Anyway, who could dare argue with the knowledge and expertise gained in over forty years of distilling the illicit (shamefully so!) water of life? And never once caught either!